


Reverse

by threewalls



Series: Schirra [78]
Category: Final Fantasy XII
Genre: 714 OV, Archades, Community: kinkfest, Established Relationship, Face Slapping, Kissing, M/M, Magic, Post-Game(s), Sado-Masochism, Video Game Mechanics, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-04
Updated: 2008-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:16:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threewalls/pseuds/threewalls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>It doesn't take skill to strike a man protected by so perverse a magick as this, one that transforms every blow to healing...</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	Reverse

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: taking advantage of status ailments - "I know that you've been good to me/Now I need you not to be"
> 
> With thanks to lynndyre for beta and much encouragement.

It isn't enough.

It should be. Basch is trying so hard; sweat coursing over his skin, the crack of contact and the involuntary jerks of his body that leave him gripping the frame so hard. Handles, not bindings, that's all Vossler need provide -- Basch will stand and take it. Spelled like this, Basch even arches into the aftermath of the strokes, sounding like sex, like pleasure the way Vossler has never heard before, not in all the other times he's had Basch like this.

If Vossler closed his eyes, it would almost be enough. It wouldn't matter that Basch's moans follow rather than match his blows. It wouldn't matter that the welts last for only an instant, the mere afterimage of the lashes, that Basch's body doesn't remember the abuse.

Nothing--  
Upon nothing--  
Upon nothing--

Vossler could strike forever like this, without marking him, without touching him, and Basch's skin would be the same mocking golden white.

Vossler _could_ close his eyes. It doesn't take skill to strike a man protected by so perverse a magick as this, one that transforms every blow to healing; nothing Vossler does can even make him bleed--

No.

Vossler breathes, the braided edges of the whip's stem digging into his palm, pacing the five strides to a closed-lid chest and back again. He steps close behind Basch, ready to take his weight. It's easier to explain magick than explain base, dark needs. This isn't Basch's fault. Fault has no place here.

Vossler traces the imagined line of one of the lashes across the stretched muscles of Basch's shoulder, then wraps his arms around Basch's torso -- but Basch stiffens in his arms, and his hands above their heads clench all the harder onto the frame. Basch, who wraps himself around Vossler like a puppy when they sleep, who never thinks of withholding contact when they could be touching, whimpers in Vossler's embrace and bites his lip in earnest now. Vossler's surprise keeps him there, holding Basch through the jerks of pain that wrack his body-- surprised, though he shouldn't be. Basch has lasted Vossler's arm with only his own strength, not perverse magicks, before; he's not protesting now.

Vossler drops a light kiss over Basch's nape; Basch flinches the only way he can, dropping his chin to his chest-- a violet mark now blossoming over Basch's arched neck.

Vossler lets go, stumbling back-- he does not know magick as Basch does, but _that_ cannot be a hoarded lash. Basch's body sags against the frame. Vossler can see other bruises now: bands slanting down around either side of his torso mottled shading pink through dark, a thin stripe across one shoulder, a thicker stripe curving across one cheek of his arse. He reaches to touch the last, Basch's muscles tensing to remain still, and Vossler leaves a handprint behind, darker over his palm, where he pressed the least.

Gods-- Basch explained _Reverse_ took healing for injury, as it took violence for healing, but Vossler didn't see it would be like this.

"Basch?"

"Vossler?"

"I want--"

"Sure."

Vossler surges forward, flush to Basch as Basch is to the frame. He bites over the kiss, sucking the flesh caught between his teeth. Vossler can almost taste the pulse of the magick, crackling in his mouth, as it seeks to heal each suck, each cutting press of teeth. Vossler's hands move light and fast, gentle, always, caresses that make Basch shudder against Vossler, make him whimper, make him bite his lip for relief. Vossler marks Basch's hips, his sides, his straining thighs with criss-crossing stripes exactly fingers-width wide. He thrusts unrestrained against Basch's arse, the tender skin drawn taut as if expecting a blow-- Vossler thinks of fucking Basch, like _this_ , Gods, the agony--

Vossler pushes away, paces to the front of the frame, biting his own lip to keep his balls from strangling his sense.

"Basch."

Basch struggles to lift his head, punch-drunk with tenderness. His eyes are pink from watering, tired, worn down, worn away. He still looks happy to see Vossler. His prick already looks bruised, though Vossler hasn't touched it, blood too close to the skin. A good man would have taken him down, laid him out, and tended to the wounds that should have been there.

Vossler looks up, to catch Basch looking down. Basch's hips carry the outline of fingers flanging to grip, but he's thrusting, leaking, wanting.

"It'll hurt."

"Only if you're gentle." Basch is almost grinning.

"You'll have to earn it."

Basch's eyes flutter briefly closed, readjusting the grip of his hands, but he nods.

Vossler restates the word of magick, outstretched palm forming the sign. The sparks fade--

"Look at me."

Vossler cuffs the back of his hand high across Basch's upturned face. The spell's fast, but not fast enough to stop Basch's head snapping with the blow. And then the magic comes, he jerks again as it strips him of his hurts, bruised skin shivering pale.

Vossler lunges for him, kissing with more teeth than lips. He slides a hand behind Basch's head to support him, but Basch makes a choked noise so Vossler tangles fingers in Basch's hair and pulls. Reaching down, Vossler has no finesse, no patience, only gratitude for the stability of the Godsblessed frame between them as he takes their cocks in one hand, and rips them both completely, excruciatingly, blissfully gone.

\---

Basch lies on his side, so many of his bruises still livid. He'd insisted that he'd had enough magick pumped through him. Vossler hadn't argued.

Vossler lies on his back. He gives Basch all the space he could want, and they still always end up with Basch pretending to doze, his head sliding onto Vossler's shoulder.

"It's not like that for you? When you want me to hit you?"

Having revealed he's awake, Basch slides over even further, an arm thrown across Vossler's body.

"That just hurts." Vossler strokes Basch's hair, smiling at the soft noises Basch makes every time one of them moves. "--But it's good."


End file.
